


Under Ground and Under Stress

by starrylizard



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Military Backstory, Sandbox fic, Swearing, Tourniquet, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26628853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrylizard/pseuds/starrylizard
Summary: Rookie mistake, mind elsewhere. He felt his stomach drop first and then he plummeted into the hole beneath...Set near the end of Jack and Mac's time in Afghanistan. Jack is badly hurt. With danger all around them, can Mac and Jack work together to get to safety?
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 53





	1. Under Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This one started as a "quick" fic and turned into 8000+ words, but it was super fun to write. Big thank you to Anguishmacgyver who was such fabulous fun motivation and who read through this long fic, twice. 
> 
> Written for day 4, Jack hurt (in a non-canon way), of the 'septembermacgyverwhump' challenge at Tumblr. And also for a weekly challenge prompt: [image of a helicopter winching two people up] + "I know you're tired but you can't go to sleep right now."+ tourniquet. 
> 
> Warnings: Contains some swearing and enemy combatants die.

AFGHANISTAN . . . OR PURGATORY . . . NO WAY TO TELL REALLY.

It was a rookie mistake. Mac was done with the bomb disposal on the third floor of the burnt-out crap hole of a building. Jack left his Overwatch position in the equally dilapidated building opposite and made his way quickly to the ground floor to meet him. If they were lucky, this should be their last call out for the day and he was looking forward to the simple pleasures of some shade, a shower, and a meal . . . preferably in that order, but Jack wasn’t that picky. 

The plain dirt floor of the other building was as neglected as the rest of the structure and Jack couldn’t help but think it might look better if they just allowed it to explode. Bits of decrepit furniture and rubbish were scattered about in random disarray. The moment he stepped on the shabby woven carpet and his foot just kept going, he knew he was done for. Rookie mistake, mind elsewhere. He felt his stomach drop first and then he plummeted into the hole beneath with no chance to stop himself.

There was a moment where his brain seemed to try to catch up with what had just happened, then a loud snap and his world exploded in agony.

Distantly, through the red haze of pain, he could hear himself screaming. His right arm was on fire, his right ankle and his head also added their cries for attention to the cacophony of overactive nerve endings sending distressing messages to his brain. He had also landed on top of his rifle, unforgivingly hard and bruising his back. It felt like hours had passed before he could even begin to think again, but it may have been mere seconds, no way to tell.

_Stop, take a breath, put the pain aside, and fucking pull yourself together, Jack!_

The internal monologue of derision and training seemed to bring him back to his senses. Jack managed to snap his mouth closed on the screams, heaving in hiccupping sobs and breathing out tightly held whimpers instead. He felt the wet heat of tears on his face as he forced himself to blink open his eyes; tried to pull in a deeper breath, sharp and ragged, and steeled himself to look down at his arm.

He’d imagined a bad break, but what he saw was far worse. The three steel claws of the homemade trap were clamped down, though only one had gone through the flesh of his forearm. Blood seeped out and dripped to the dirt from where the metal dug deeply. To top it off, a thick chain ran from the trap to somewhere inside the dirt of the wall. Jack tried to wriggle his fingers experimentally and felt himself almost blackout from the pain of the effort. Darkness tunnelled at the edges of his vision.

“Fuck!” Jack yelled. “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck,” he continued to mutter. Trying to breathe. Trying not to throw up. Trying to think, but not think at the same time. His right arm. Why did it have to be his right arm? He let his head fall back to the ground, eyes squeezed shut again as he panted and sweated through the new waves of pain. Somehow it figured. Two weeks. He only had another two weeks and then both he and the bomb nerd were home free. He was going back to his beloved Texas heat, rather than this sandbox hell. Just two more weeks. “Fuck!” _Rookie mistake._

Jack took a deep breath and opened his eyes, this time only looking up. He used his left hand to wipe some blood from a cut above his eye. The hole was an unevenly hewn rectangle that gave him the feeling of being at the bottom of a grave. Its crumbling sides were just wide enough to fit his whole frame and deep that he couldn’t see anything beyond the rectangle of the metal-girded ceiling directly above him. As he stared upward, though, a shadow breached the light, then a man in local militia gear was leaning over, a vicious smile suddenly lighting up his face as he took in Jack’s very trapped form.

Jack scrambled to find his weapon left-handed, but there wasn’t much room to move and he couldn’t immediately set his hand on it. The man above him raised a semi-automatic, aiming down into the hole, taking his time, messing with his prey. The man laughed and Jack steeled himself for the shot. This was it. He was going to die, in a literal hell hole, because of a god damn rookie mistake.

Where Jack expected a loud bang and then lights out, there was instead a sickening wet squelch, and then the man fell from Jack’s view with a thud.

MacGyver’s head popped into view above him and Jack chuckled hysterically until he almost blacked out again from the pain. Mac’s mouth moved, but all Jack heard was white noise, before he shifted back out of Jack’s line of sight again.

“Kid, you have a weird sense of timing,” Jack finally gasped out.

\-----

Mac stared down into the hole, finding a scene that felt like it came straight out of a horror movie. The hole looked like a deep grave, and his overwatch and friend, though clearly badly hurt, was laughing hysterically in between sobbing pained breaths.

“Jack? Hey. I’m going to get you out of there. Just hold on.” He wasn’t sure Jack could hear him over his own wheezing laughter.

Behind Mac was another horror scene of his own creation. He’d heard Jack’s screaming two-fold, over his comms and also in person. It was only luck he’d reached the ground floor of the building shortly after the militia man had. If he’d been out in the open, he’d have had no way to protect himself. As the man had raised his weapon to point it down into the hole, Mac had done the only thing available to him, picked up a makeshift weapon and snuck up behind the man.

The sound the metal had made, as it impacted the man’s head and his body dropped to the ground, made him want to throw up. Right now, he couldn’t look in that direction. The relief at finding Jack still alive and breathing, though clearly in bad shape, was enormous.

Mac unhooked the satellite phone from his tac vest, pleased he hadn’t had any reason to dismantle it today, and contacted base.

“This is Snakebite One One. Overwatch is injured and in need of urgent medical attention. We’re going to need our ride earlier. Requesting immediate evac.”

_“Snakebite One One, this is base. Copy that. What’s your position?”_

“Ground level of the target building. Likely enemy combatants in the area.”

_“Understood, a bird has been dispatched to the roof of the target building. Pararescue on board. ETA forty-five mikes.”_

“Understood. Snakebite One One out.”

“Kid, you have a weird sense of timing,” Jack gasped out from down in the hole, apparently getting a hold of himself. His voice shifted to a flat tone as he added: “You should go. There will be more of them and I can’t protect you.”

Mac had been scouting the room for something he could use as a rope, but Jack’s voice pulled him up cold. Incredulous anger had Mac sliding to the ground on his belly in an instant, as he leaned his head into the pit right over Jack’s head.

“No way I’m leaving you behind and you know it.”

“Stubborn ass,” Jack shot back, pain-filled eyes turned steely for a moment as he stared directly up at Mac.

“Thanks for finally noticing!” Mac snapped back.

Mac shone his flashlight down on to Jack. Jack’s face was much paler than usual, his whole body gently quivered with pain or shock (maybe both) and Mac could see tear tracks that ran through the dirt covering his face. The fight seemed to drain out of him and he let his head drop back to the ground on a pained groan.

Mac could see something metal that appeared to be clamped around, and probably into, Jack’s right arm, blood seeping through the sleeve of his BDU in large enough volume to be a very big concern. A cut on his forehead was bleeding sluggishly. It was hard to tell if Jack had any other injuries, but slumped as he was at an awkward angle in such a tight space, Mac thought he’d probably be lucky if there wasn’t further damage. One thing was clear, getting him out of the hole was going be tricky business, and would most definitely suck.

“Shit, Jack! Arm, head, anything else?” Mac asked.

“Ankle’s throbbing. Not sure if it’s broken or just twisted,” Jack answered, his eyes still closed. He sounded weirdly defeated now that he knew Mac wasn’t going anywhere. “This rat trap is attached to the wall somehow. Don’t think I’m gettin’ out of here any time soon. You should . . .” Jack paused and swallowed. “You should go get help,” Jack appeared to try one last time to get Mac to safety.

“Not going anywhere.” Mac articulated each word slowly for Jack’s benefit. “Give me a moment to find some rope or something and I’ll come down to you. I’ll be right back. And Jack, don’t fall asleep, okay?”

Jack opened his eyes, making eye contact with Mac for a moment. Something in his demeanour shifted and he nodded seriously. “Yeah, alright. Just, be careful.”

Mac nodded, sliding back from the edge of the hole to stand up. He scanned the room, looking for anything of use. His eyes skittered over the body of the militia; the man’s blood pooled around his head where he lay. He took a deep breath as his heart rate jumped up a notch and nausea pooled in his belly. He wasn’t ready to look at that too closely. It had to be done and he needed to concentrate on Jack right now.

Mac paced the floor, hands reaching to tug at his hair only to smack into his helmet instead. He gave a small frustrated growl.

“Emotions get you killed. Emotions get you killed. Emotions get you killed,” Mac mumbled under his breath. His father’s mantra drilled into him whenever he acted anything other than logically as a child. “Come on, work the problem, Mac.”

There. One of the piles of discarded stuff off to his right contained a whole pile of old electrical cords. He could use that to make ropes and at least get down to assess Jack’s injuries better. Then maybe he could use some of the heavier furniture items or load bearing beams to form a pulley system to lift him out.

“You alright out there, Hoss? I heard voices.” Jack’s voice was deliberately low, but not whispered.

“Only one voice, Jack. Just talking to myself. Working the problem. I think I’ve got something. Hang on just one more minute and I’ll be with you.”

Mac leaned into the hole to show Jack he was fine. Their eyes met, Jack’s expression tense. Mac couldn’t help but think that being unable to see what was happening must be taking its toll on a man whose very job was to keep watch. Jack gave Mac another tight nod.

Mac made a beeline, one deliberately skirting around the body without looking at it, to get to the electrical cables. He could do this. He had a plan. The rest was logic and improvisation and Jack needed him to hustle.

\------

Jack was startled by the thwak of the braided cords landing in the hole with him. He’d managed to work his sidearm loose after Mac had disappeared from view, and he raised it now, awkwardly using his non-dominant hand. The fact that he’d been almost out for the count, even if only for a moment, gave him serious pause.

“Mac?” Jack asked, just as Mac came into view. 

“Yeah, it’s me, big guy,” Mac confirmed as he mostly jumped into the hole, using the cords for stability only. They’d sure need them to get out again, though.

Mac raised his hands and his eyebrows and Jack realised he was still pointing his weapon. He quickly lowered it. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I . . . You just caught me by surprise is all.”

MacGyver squatted down, partially straddling Jack in the small space. The look of concern on Mac’s face only added to Jack’s feeling of vulnerability. Stuck in a damn hole, no use to anyone and the man he swore to protect was putting his own life in danger for him. All because he made a damn rookie mistake.

“Okay,” Mac said. Doubt in his voice, but clearly, he’d chosen not to call him out on maybe passing the fuck out for a moment, and Jack was thankful for that. “How are you doing? How about we get you patched up and mobile? The Helicopter is coming early for us.”

Mac carefully, as if not wanting to scare a hurt animal, moved until he was hovering above Jack’s trapped arm, assessing, but not touching yet. Jack sucked in a breath at just the thought of it.

Mac held himself awkwardly, like a kid trying to walk through motions he’d observed but not practiced. After what appeared to be careful consideration, Mac didn’t sugar coat the situation and Jack appreciated the lack of bull shit. “I don’t think we can take this off. You’re bleeding pretty badly even without trying to remove it.”

Jack swallowed. “There’s a tourniquet in my trauma kit.”

Mac nodded and reached to unclip the kit from Jack’s tac vest. Jack’s kit was better equipped than Mac’s basic one. It annoyed Jack suddenly, the thought that he’d been sitting here like a limp noodle, bleeding, and hadn’t done anything about it himself.

“How long?” Jack asked.

“Bird hits the roof in forty minutes,” Mac answered the wrong question.

“No,” Jack shook his head, watching Mac’s hands as he released the tourniquet and reached toward Jack’s upper arm. “No, how long have I been here?” Jack tried again, a slight crack in his voice.

“Jack, it’s been maybe,” Mac looked at his watch. “. . . six minutes, give or take.”

Jack was startled, sure he’d been here much longer than that. But Mac wasn’t about to lie about something like that. The blood loss, pain and shock were clearly messing with him more than he realised.

“Sorry about this, Jack.”

Mac suddenly pushed a rolled bandage into Jack’s mouth and Jack clamped his teeth into it automatically. Clever thinking, it’d keep them both safer. But before Jack could think any more on that, Mac had tightened the tourniquet as hard as he could, then started twisting the stick to tighten it fully. Jack’s cries, muffled as they were, didn’t begin to express the agony. It was quick at least; stopped almost as quickly as it began.

Mac jotted the time on the tag as Jack spat out the bandage and lay panting. Eyes squeezed shut, Jack felt Mac unclip and then slip off his helmet long enough to tend to the laceration just above his hairline.

“Hey, hey Jack,” Jack felt a hand patting his face none too gently. “I know you're tired but you can't go to sleep right now, big guy.”

Jack blinked open eyes he hadn’t realised were still shut.

“There you are. Stay with me, okay. How’s the ankle? I’d rather not take off your boot. It’ll keep it supported.”

“Ugh,” Jack lifted his head a bit, trying to see down his body to his ankle that, with everything else hurting he’d almost managed to forget was damaged. He steeled himself and tried to wiggle his toes. It hurt and he grimaced, but it didn’t feel broken. “Don’t think it’s broken, maybe fractured or badly sprained. I can move it,” he managed.

“Alright then, I need your gun, Jack.” Mac held out his hand, his fingers curled in a gesture that meant ‘give it to me.’

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I know I’m in bad shape, but there are other options. . .” he joked, but his hand tightened on the weapon. Mac _never_ used a gun. He must have made it through basic training but, as far as Jack could tell, his weapon was always stowed in his pack, no matter what Jack’s thoughts were on that.

“We need to get this chain off so we can get out of here, Jack. Unless you’ve got a better idea, hand it over.”

Mac clicked his fingers impatiently, the same way he did when he was about to mangle Jack’s satellite phone or break his favourite sunglasses or take his last stick of gum, all in the name of saving people from something that goes kaboom. When Jack still didn’t release his weapon, Mac sighed expressively.

“I’ll do it,” Jack stated. “I don’t even know if you can shoot straight. You might kill us both.”

“Uh huh. You’re going to work out the correct angles to make sure the bullet won’t ricochet and take one of us out, and then take the shot with your left hand, shaking from blood loss, all while lying down in this pit at such an angle you can barely see the chain we’re talking about?”

The kid had a point. Jack carefully handed over his weapon, handle first.

Mac shuffled a little to reposition himself where he was crouching. Jack could practically see the hamsters turning, as he checked that there was a bullet in the chamber, lined up the shot and fired without preamble. Jack shifted his jaw from side to side in a useless attempt to pop his ears. Gunfire always sounded far louder when he wasn’t the one doing the shooting.

Peering over his body, he saw Mac was now holding the broken-off end of the chain, which he carefully tucked into the end of the trap. With a pointed look of sheer impudence, Mac handed the Glock back to Jack, just as he’d received it, deliberately slow, muzzle down, holding it by the barrel. One shot wouldn’t have heated it up too much to touch and they both knew it. Jack took the weapon, trying to hide the grin that was bubbling up at the sheer sass on display. He really loved this guy.

“Nice shooting, hoss.”

“That’s a real compliment, big guy. I won’t ever forget this moment.”

Jack did chuckle at that, but it turned into a groan, as Mac slipped around behind him and, ever so slowly, helped him sit up. It was a steady manoeuvre, even as Mac paused for just a moment whenever Jack tensed up too much with pain.

Jack distracted himself with how familiar he was with Mac in this mode. He’d seen Mac do this numerous times before through his scope as he acted as overwatch. Not so much _this_ exactly, but this considered movement. If Jack imagined himself as a bomb that Mac needed to dismantle ever so cautiously or there’d be dire consequences, he could see how Mac was now going step by step.

Step 1, get to the device, check. He wasn’t even the hardest device to get to. Not like the time Mac had to contort himself to crawl through a tiny window on the third floor of an apartment building and navigate past rusted out drainpipes to reach one. He’d tried to convince Jack he needed to take off his body armour for that one and Jack was decidedly _not_ okay with that. 

Step 2, give yourself time by stopping the reaction or finding the detonation something or other and definitely not touching the wrong wiring, although he was pretty sure Mac had reversed that wrong wiring situation once with the foil from a gum wrapper. Jack was never that good with the details on step 2, but it was all about making sure you weren’t going to blow up before you got the job done. Mac had already stopped the worst of the bleeding with the tourniquet, at least he hoped Mac had because that really hurt, so now there was time for further steps to be possible, check.

Now they were in Step 3. Not so much bomb disposal in this case, or even like the time Mac threw a device outside into a dumpster with seconds to spare because the timer was too close when they reached it. But in this case, step 3 was something like ‘get Jack mobile’. Just getting to a sitting position had been hell, but he was there now, sort of, and he hadn’t passed out. It felt like an accomplishment and Jack was gonna take it.

The whole idea of Mac defusing the device called Jack, more than just a distraction, was actually quite comforting. After all, Mac had never met a bomb he couldn’t defuse and therefore, Mac would get this device out of here too. But then again, Mac usually had an overwatch.

And suddenly the metaphor wasn’t quite as comforting as he’d let it be.

Jack’s eyes tracked upward as he watched with concentration for any further person-shaped shadows that might fall over this rookie-shaped hole. His left hand twitched where he held his gun.

“Hey Jack, lemme do the work here, yeah.” Mac removed Jack’s rifle, strapping it to his own back instead, then ever so carefully manoeuvred Jack’s trapped arm, metal trap still attached, toward Jack’s chest and started to tie it there with a lot of improvisation and triangle bandages. Bringing the arm up higher would have the double benefit of slowing any bleeding the tourniquet didn’t.

“One day,” Jack panted out. He tried to concentrate on his words and any possible shadows above them, rather than the sudden flashes of hot pain each movement caused. “One day, you’ll have to explain to me the real reason why you won’t normally even _touch_ a gun.”

“Just don’t like ‘em,” Mac’s usual answer was, as usual, uninformative on the subject. “How’s that?” Mac asked having finished tying off the last bandage, topic closed, moving on.

The whole exercise had been done at the pace of ‘slow and steady’. Step 3 well underway. Jack found his arm was tied snugly against his tac vest, held there with knots behind his back somewhere. It was still not going to be any fun to move, but it was better than any alternative he could think of. Jack grunted his thanks. It was terrifying, yet a relief all at once, that he was losing some of the feeling in his arm as the tourniquet did it’s best to stop him bleeding out further.

“Step 3 is going well, so far,” Jack answered.

Mac ducked down to make eye contact. “Step 3 of what?” he asked, looking concerned.

“Step three is disposal. Gotta get this device,” Jack brought his left hand up to his chest, gun still held loosely, to indicate himself, “. . . out of this hole and blow this joint,” Jack clarified.

Mac blinked. “Did you just refer to yourself as a device?”

“Uh,” Jack blinked. “It’s a metaphase, y’know?”

“Metaphor, Jack. And a weird one even for you. But you’re right, let’s get you up.”

Jack tensed as he suddenly saw the shadow that he’d almost forgotten he’d been watching for silently appear behind Mac. That was all the warning he got before an armed figure emerged above them and he raised his weapon, Mac safely within his arm span, and fired.

Mac jumped, startled, and then spun as they both heard the grunt and then thud of a lifeless human body hitting the dirt. Mac shuddered slightly, before turning wide-eyed back to Jack. Jack simply shrugged at Mac, but he was quietly pleased. Maybe he was still needed here.

Both men held their breath, listening, but they didn’t hear any further movement from above. 

“We’d best get this show on the road, eh Mac?” he said quietly. 

Contrary to popular belief, holding your breath does _not_ help with pain relief at all. Jack did a lot of it, though, mainly to avoid crying out when an enemy combatant might be walking past any damn second.

He used the working muscles of his left arm and leg, while Mac used brute force and his improvised pulley system to somehow get Jack out of the hole. To say it was one of the least pleasant experiences of his life, and that included torture and Delta level boot camp training, was not an exaggeration. Each pull sent a sharp pain through Jack's hand, straining his bruised back and jarring his injured ankle. Flashes of hot and cold radiated like pins and needles from his wounded arm with the movement. It felt as if the pain were crawling under his skin in sync with his pounding heartbeat.

Once back on the ground level, both men flopped to the dirt floor for a moment, panting and quietly laughing.


	2. Under Stress

This was all taking too long. Mac’s mind was flying a mile a second. He was watching the time, struggling to keep Jack upright, thinking about the man he killed or trying not to think about him, thinking about whether the doctors would be able to fix Jack's hand . . . and how long the tourniquet had been in place because Jack admitted he couldn’t feel his arm much anymore. They had less than two hours before the death to muscle tissue would mean the damage would become permanent.

Mac was supporting Jack under on his bad side, his left arm snaking around Jack’s back to latch onto his belt. They started with a hop up one step on a count of three until they found a wobbly sort of rhythm. Jack soon started mumble singing song lyrics and they moved each time he hit a new line in the song. “When the going gets tough,” then a hop, “the tough get going,” hop. Singing was putting it nicely though, Jack grunted and muttered more than sang, but Mac wasn’t about to stop him if the song kept him moving.

It was ridiculous and ridiculously slow and not working very well. Mac could see Jack getting paler by the moment, blood loss and the pain of his injuries, combined with the sheer exertion of the ungainly exercise. Even Mac was sweating up a storm and grunting with the effort.

As they somehow reached the top of the second flight of stairs Jack wavered on his feet, blood pressure no doubt much lower than advisable, and Mac moved to quickly ease him down to the floor of the stairwell. He uncapped his canteen and handed it to Jack.

“This isn’t going to work for another four flights, buddy. We need to figure something else out before you pass out.”

Jack just nodded and let his head fall back against the wall for a moment as he drank. “I just need a moment,” he grumbled, but he looked defeated and it frightened Mac. It scared him to see the man who kept him safe here in the sandbox, the man who was always full of an intense mix of annoying energy and calming confidence, suddenly struggling so badly to hold himself together.

It left Mac feeling exposed and he suddenly appreciated the older man even more than he already had. If Mac thought about it too much, he’d probably freak out, so he tried to turn his thoughts to someplace more practical.

“Emotions get you killed. Work the problem,” he muttered the mantra again, trying to center himself.

“What was that, hoss?” Jack asked. “Because it sounds a bit like bullshit,” he added.

“Not helping, Jack,” Mac took a deep breath, running through his mind the various items he’d seen since they’d entered the building that might be of use. “I’ve got an idea, but I need to get something from where we were downs tairs. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, hey, no. You’re not even carrying. You can’t be just going back down there with no backup.” Jack gave a look of pure anger and started to try to push himself back upright.

Mac pushed him back down far too easily using just one hand on his shoulder. He gave Jack a pointed look. “Jack, if you were able to act as my backup now, we wouldn’t need something more to get us up these stairs.”

Jack’s face fell even as the words left Mac’s lips and he knew it was a harsh thing to say. But it needed to be said. Mac squatted down in front of Jack, making eye contact with him.

Mac chose a deliberately gentler tone. “I’ll leave the radio open, but we can’t go much further this way and our rescue is on the roof in twenty minutes. We need to get moving.”

Jack took a deep, sad-sounding breath, but he didn’t break eye contact. “I’m sorry, hoss. This is all my fault. I’d never put you in danger.” 

“Hey, I know, big guy. I didn’t mean to imply that you would. Just trust me here, alright. You trained me well. The army trained me well. I’ll be quick and quiet. In and out.” Mac placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed when he got nothing back. “Alright?” he asked.

Jack nodded, tight-lipped. Mac slid off both his rucksack and the rifle and set them next to Jack.

“Good. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Mac stood, turned, and jogged back down the stairs. He didn’t look back; not sure he could stand to see the dejected shape of his usually loud and proud overwatch slumped in the stairwell behind him.

Mac moved quickly down the stairs, taking just moments to get back to where their slow hops had taken far too long to get away from. He peeked cautiously into the open space of the ground floor, listening and waiting. Visually, nothing appeared to have changed. There were still two dead bodies, next to what Mac knew all too well to be a pit trap. Various decrepit furniture and other bits and pieces lay where they were thrown out.

Over near the pile of computer-related junk, where Mac had found the cabling he used for ropes, was what he was here for, a small wooden ladder. That ladder, plus a little more of the cabling and he was hoping he’d have a makeshift sled to haul Jack up the stairs. Still not a great plan, but anything would be easier than their current pace and he wasn’t sure Jack would stay upright if they kept on with it.

Just as he was about to step out though, voices filtered in, and several more men entered the ground floor. Mac quickly tucked himself back into the stairwell as he cautiously peered out. The men’s voices got more animated as they caught sight of the bodies.

“Oh, not good,” Mac muttered as he retreated up the stairs as quietly as possible.

\------

Jack listened to the radio. Scrunched down with his back against the wall, waiting, he was feeling more useless than ever. Every line of his body was tense as he concentrated his entire attention on listening.

For the most part, all he could hear was Mac’s breathing. Which was proof of life, but not very informative. Mac’s breathing quietened, and Jack could only assume he’d reached the ground floor and was taking the time to assess the situation.

Then Mac muttered “Oh, not good,” and Jack’s heart picked up the pace as his adrenaline surged.

“Care to elaborate?” Jack asked in the calm all-business voice he knew from experience Mac responds most automatically to.

_“Maybe four guys, oh yeah and they spotted the bodies. We need a new plan. I’m coming back to you.”_

Mac’s carefully quiet response was certainly more alarming than ‘not good’. It seemed that was another phrase, similar to his patented ‘I’m fine’ to be filed under ‘massive understatement’ in Jack’s Mac dictionary. The only good news was that he hadn’t had to say anything to get Mac to do the sensible thing and come straight back this time.

A few moments of heavy breathing over the radio later and Mac re-emerged on the stairs, moving quickly but quietly. He picked up his rucksack and the rifle and slung them back into place, then reached down to help Jack back up.

“Sorry, man. We’ve just got to try to keep moving.”

Jack carefully placed his weapon into the left side of his pants, the thigh holster too hard to reach with his left hand. He slid himself backward bum first toward the stairs, rough concrete warring with his BDUs.

“Seems as long as I don’t stand up, I’m less likely to _bottom_ out my blood pressure,” he commented with a wink to Mac, keeping his voice low just as Mac was. “I think good ol’ Jack has another solution so simple your big brain didn’t think of it.”

With that Jack pushed up with his good hand and foot to bum-slide himself up one step.

Mac grinned. “You’re right.”

“What was that, baby Einstein,” Jack crowed softly.

“You heard me,” Mac chuckled.

“Oh yeah, but one more time wouldn’t hurt for _posterity_.” Jack paused in his bum-slide to point to his own rear end as they hit the fourth-floor landing, and Mac shook his head as he tried not to grin and failed.

They both froze as they heard footsteps below them on the stairs. Then the _whump-whump-whump_ of helicopter rotors above them.

Jack mouthed “Keep low and keep moving” as he moved his gun from his pocket to his lap for easy access and waved Mac to get behind him on the stairs. Mac quickly moved to get out of his line of fire. He then heaved himself to the next step, hand then leg, pushing himself faster until the muscles on his left side were cramping painful, but they were so close.

A shot ricocheted off the wall above Mac’s head and they both ducked on instinct. Jack returned fire twice, letting the men below them know this was not a one-sided gunfight. Shouted Arabic reached their ears as no doubt the men below them also ducked on instinct.

Jack took the opportunity to shuffle-bum-slide up two more steps, only one more flight standing between them and the roof. He could hear Mac on the Sat phone giving a sitrep. _Good job, kid._

More shots rang out, these ones were closer as the men used the cover fire to peer at their quarry. Jack saw a toothy grin on the one who had poked his head out. The man pulled back before Jack could get a clean shot off into his face. Jack squeezed off a few more shots, frustrated as his hand shook. He was all too aware he had no easy way to reload and he was already down to half a clip.

The harsh pounding of boots from above suddenly mixed with fresh gunfire from below as a heavily-armed, three-man pararescue team stormed down past Jack and Mac into the stairwell. Though fatigued, Jack tried to position himself between Mac and the gunfire below them as they both got low and tight into the wall. The sound of the fighting was intense, but it was over in moments. Jack could make out the gentle clack of weapons, no doubt being kicked away from bodies, followed by their rescuers’ return.

“Boy, are we glad to see you, guys.” Jack sighed, falling back into the stairwell with a thud as his left arm decided not to take his weight any longer. 

“Sergeant Price at your service. Davis and Coop.” He pointed to the other two men. “Heard you called for a bird. Now, let’s get you boys up top and safely into it.”

Jack found Davis and Coop were suddenly on either side of him, picking him up under his legs as Jack curled his working arm around one man’s shoulder. Mac and Price followed behind and within minutes they were on the roof that it had taken the two of them so long to crawl toward.

“Hey, Mac?” Jack asked. “We got to the chopper,” he stated triumphantly in a terrible Schwarzenegger impersonation.

\------

The Pavehawk helo hovered about twenty feet above them, unable to land on the unsteady building structure. A gunner keeping watch out the open doorway waved at them as Mac looked up and up, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Within moments of hitting the roof, Jack and Mac were each harnessed to one of the rescue team and being winched toward safety.

Mac slammed his eyes shut, feeling the fatigue of the day’s events catching up to him as his fear of heights kicked in and he suddenly found he didn’t have the mental capacity left to fight it. As his feet left the ground, he felt himself reeling with vertigo almost instantly, heart rate kicking up as he clutched the harness until it hurt his hands. 

“Hey. We’re on board. Can you open your eyes and take a deep breath for me?”

The voice wasn’t familiar. It didn’t have the right Texan drawl. The sound of the rotors was a deafening roar that only seemed to get louder as he opened his eyes. Mac found himself still clutching his harness in a death grip, facing the sergeant who had just helped to winch him to up to safety. Mac’s eyes skittered up to the man’s face and Sergeant Price looked at him with an expression of concern that was something more familiar, but still not right. 

Mac let go and tried to back up, but the harness didn’t let him move as the other man held his place. Mac raised his hands, suddenly hyperaware of the slick feel of the sweat and blood that covered them. Jack’s blood. And it reminded him there was more blood on his hands; that of the man he’d killed today.

The Pavehawk swooped low as it swept around to head back to base and Mac’s stomach dropped momentarily with the movement. The other man was likely the only reason he was still standing, but Mac felt trapped by the harness. He started pushing at it ineffectually, his shoulder and arms trembling as his breathing grew more ragged. He needed to get out. Needed to wash away the blood. Needed to stop the noise, get away from the smell of the fuel and dust and blood and suffocating desert heat.

“Hey, MacGyver, right? Just hold . . . minute there. Try to slow it . . . slow breath for me.”

The sergeant was carefully, slowly, releasing the buckles and carabiners that would separate Mac’s harness from his own. All the while he was speaking in a steady tone of voice, but Mac had to strain to hear it above the constant clamour of the rotors and engines and the sound of his own ragged breath.

As the harness finally fell away, Mac stumbled backward, then jerked in fright and stumbled back the other way again, as another man quickly got in his way, blocking him from moving too close to the open door.

“Hey, Mac? Mac! Take a breath, buddy. You’re scaring me.” Jack’s voice suddenly filtered through his earpiece and Mac immediately swivelled his whole body to find the source.

Jack was laid out nearby, his face sweaty and pale as he was hooked up to an IV line on one side and another medic was trying to check his injuries and take vitals. Jack was paying attention to none of it though, as he pushed himself to a half sit. All of Jack’s attention was drawn to Mac, as he watched with lowered eyebrows over wide concerned eyes.

“Mac buddy, breathe. Come on now, man. Look right here.” Jack indicated toward his face. 

Mac’s eyes were drawn downward instead though, to the bloodstains on Jack’s uniform, the pale and waxy complexion of his skin, the blood, back to the blood on his own hands. . . and suddenly all he could see was the man he’d tried so hard not to look at on the dirt floor.

Mac brought his focus up, but looking outside the helicopter, where the ground was now so far below. And Mac was conscious of how they were hanging up high held aloft by nothing but the lift generated by rotor blades. And he couldn’t . . . take a breath . . . couldn’t think . . . couldn’t stop thinking.

“Just one slow breath, Mac. Come on, kiddo.”

Jack’s voice had a desperate edge now as Mac felt his knees buckle as a whimper broke from his lips and reverberated through his head along with the rhythmic thump of the rotors. His vision blurred. The sergeant was back in Mac’s space, holding him gently but firmly in one place. Too close. He couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t fight it, he’s there to help, Mac,” Jack’s voice sounded sad in his earpiece.

There was a sharp sting and Mac’s vision closed in and faded to black.

\------

Jack moaned as he felt his brain dragging its way toward consciousness; though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it just yet. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyeballs seemed just to roll around a bit before his eyelids slammed closed again. All he was sure of was he was in a room, one that had a distinctively sharp smell of antiseptic and cleaning fluid. That was enough for him to easily guess where that room was. He groaned at the thought, wondering what he’d done to land him in surgery this time.

“Jack, you awake?”

Jack was asleep again, even as he registered who had asked.

Some unknown time later, Jack rolled his eyes open again and they stayed that way between long slow blinks. A drip wound into the crook of his left arm. Jack smiled, clearly, it contained some _good_ stuff. Peering to his other side, his right arm was a mass of bandages and lightweight plaster where it rested on a pillow. The entire arm throbbed with his pulse. He held his breath and wiggled his fingers, relieved to see each one move in turn.

He cracked his neck, shuffled his position around a little, and felt bruises and muscles all over his body protesting meekly through the general haze of drugs. Experience taught him everything would be much worse when they lowered the dose later, may as well stretch a bit now. His ankle gave a particularly unpleasant twinge when he tried to move it. Another definite injury there. Arm, leg, maybe head (the throbbing could just be the drugs). _What the hell did I do?_

It hit him like a light switch was being flicked on. The carpet, the pain, and Mac. Oh _shit_ , Mac. He did everything right and then on the helo he just . . .

“Mac?” Jack mumbled, voice hoarse and dry with disuse.

There was a muttered “hmm” from over to Jack’s left and he tried to lift and crane his neck to see where it came from. Mac was sacked out in a sprawled heap on a second bed, looking for all the world like a kid. As Jack watched, he scrubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, sitting up in a hurry as he caught sight of Jack.

“Jack, you’re really awake. Thought you might sleep for another year.” Mac yawned widely at the end of his sentence and tried to flatten his sleep-mussed hair as he slid off the mattress. He soon stood next to Jack’s bed, fiddling with the controls to raise it up some. To Jack it seemed Mac’s whole demeanour was quietly subdued.

“You okay, kid?”

Jack couldn’t help but relive the scene in the helicopter in his mind’s eye. How Mac had been shaking and crying and so completely in the throes of a panic attack like Jack had rarely seen before. He’d watched, helpless, as the pararescue team had wordlessly communicated to each other, gently corralling the kid, before drugging him into sleep.

Mac leaned his hands on the mattress uncertainly, a quizzical look on his face at the question. “I think that’s my line, Jack.”

Jack grunted, tried to swallow but he didn’t seem to have enough spit. Mac held out a cup with a straw in it and Jack took a grateful slurp, feeling the cool water ease his aching throat.

“Well, if you prefer to do it that way, you know more than me at this point. What’s the damage?” Jack tried to sound casual, but inwardly he was terrified that the damage might mean he wouldn’t regain full use of his dominant hand. His gun hand.

“Uh,” Mac mumbled. “You want me to find the doctor to explain?”

“Is it that bad?” It must have been the drugs affecting his usual control, but Jack’s eyes welled a little and he heard his voice crack.

“No, no, nothing like that, Jack. I just thought he could explain it better.” Mac was quick to reassure Jack, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “They, uh, they said the tourniquet wasn’t on long enough that they thought there’d be any permanent muscle damage. The, um,” Mac’s eyes flipped up to the side as if trying to recall the exact words. “The penetrating injury to your arm. That trap thing that . . .” Mac waved his hand at Jack’s right arm unsure.

“Yeah I remember, kid, believe me,” Jack said dryly.

“Yeah well, they think you should get full use back with some PT. Missed the bone, but caused some tendon damage. They couldn’t say much more, sorry. Gotta wait for it to heal up more.” Mac shrugged apologetically, looking for all the world like an unsure teenager, rather than the confident EOD tech Jack was used to working with in the field.

Jack sighed in relief though, nodding his thanks as he did his best to sniff and blink the tears away.

“Damn drugs are making me look like an emotional teenager,” He grumbled.

Mac patted Jack’s shoulder again, then squeezed it. “Oh, and your ankle is broken, in case you’re wondering,” Mac suddenly added.

Jack sighed a different sort of sigh at that. Man, he hated crutches, but wheelchairs were worse.

“They’ve agreed to send us home early. Both of us.” Mac hung his head, toeing at the floor as he spoke. He looked relieved and sheepish at the same time.

“Huh,” Jack cracked his neck as he tried to make eye contact, but Mac’s eyes just skittered away even when he looked up. “I would’ve thought they’d cling to their best bomb tech for the last two weeks, but I’m glad to hear it, hoss. Wouldn’t want you out there without your overwatch.” Jack kept his voice as soft and upbeat as he could muster. There was more to this, and maybe if he just stayed quiet and still long enough, he could . . .

Mac sighed. _And here it is_ , Jack thought, surprised at how quickly Mac had cracked.

“Uh, they heard about the, um, incident on the helicopter. Since there are only two more weeks on my tour, they . . .” Mac sighed heavily. “They said they wouldn’t bother to discharge me under Section 8. I can stay here with you until they deem you well enough for transport and then we leave as planned.”

Jack really did sigh at that, but it was a good sort of sigh and Mac looked at him sharply.

“Mac, it’s a _good_ thing. Trust me, hoss. I’m a mess here. And I’m sorry you had to do my job out there for me, because _I_ fucked up. I promise to make sure it never happens again, okay.”

Mac’s eyes dropped down again, his shoulders quivering beneath his t-shirt.

“Mac?” Jack was suddenly so heavy with relief and drugs and grief and guilt. “Mac, look at me, please.”

When Mac dragged his head up again, his eyes were red-rimmed around blue and wet with unshed tears as he scrubbed at them with the heels of his hands again. With his hair still sleep-mussed, Jack was reminded again how young this kid was. He should have protected him better and it made him so angry to think he dropped the ball with two weeks to spare.

“C’mere kid.” Jack reached out his left arm. Mac hesitated for a moment, but Jack just gestured again. “I’m drugged to the gills. Don’t deny me a simple man-hug.”

Mac huffed a laugh and shuffled closer into Jack’s space and Jack snatched him into a one-armed embrace before he could reconsider. Mac’s arms came up to gently return the comfort, not wanting to accidentally cause pain.

With his mouth now so close to Mac’s head, Jack spoke into Mac’s sweat-mussed hair. His voice firm, but soft, emphasising each point with a squeeze of his arm.

“Listen, I know from experience you need to work through this somehow. Not compartmentalise it and run back out into the desert. There’s a time and place. You saved my god damn life and I’m grateful, you hear me. And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Got it?”

Jack gave another squeeze. “Got it?” he all but growled.

“Yeah,” Mac replied, sitting up a little with a snuffle. “Yeah. And Jack?” Mac looked directly into Jack’s eyes; his blue-eyed gaze intense. “I’m really glad you didn’t die. I’d do it again to save your life.”

Jack squished Mac back down into his side for another beat, trying to tamp down his own emotions as he felt his heart stutter in his chest.

“Thank you, kid,” he croaked out. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks also go out to everyone who put up with me as I griped about the stairs. OMG, the stairs!! *dramatic flail* And thanks to CommanderBunnBunn for your technical help.  
> Disclaimer: Not a medical or military professional. I just read like a true geek. I also use Australian English.  
> Thanks so much for reading. Comments always very appreciated.


End file.
